


Russian Roulette

by Insertpoetryhere



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Actual past rape/noncon, All kids do are gonna have something a little fucked about them, Bc that’s canon and no one ever lets him smoke, Bulimia, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, False Rape Accusation, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Melchioritz is one sided, Mental Illness, Modern AU, Moritz smokes, Self Harm, Suicide, Tags will update along with the story, Title does apply to all characters, but like i said, but not the side you think, but some more metaphorically than others, dark shit, depressed character written by a depressed author, first chapter is probably where the worst of it will be, greif, hella whump, its really dark, like i said, melchior is a scary boy, please read at your own risk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-21 19:48:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insertpoetryhere/pseuds/Insertpoetryhere
Summary: We all have our own shit we go through. And not all of it is easy to see.





	1. Glowing

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags before continuing!

Glow stars don’t do much to light up a dark room.

The light from Moritz's lighter was doing a better job at casting light on the sickly bare walls of his bedroom. Why did those stupid stars comfort him so much when he was younger? They didn’t do shit.

He held the joint in his other hand up to his lips and balanced it there with his teeth. He brought the lighter up to the end of the blunt, lighting it up and letting the sickening scent of marijuana seep in through his nose.

He turned his attention back to his lighter, just staring at the flame. If he let go of it now, it would be dark. Just him, these stupid glow stars, and the pistol he stole from his dad and hid in his sock drawer. 

It was all too much. These thoughts were too fucking much.

Moritz raised the lighter, holding it directly under his arm and letting the flame brush against his skin. He bit his bottom lip until he could taste blood, trying not to scream. His Dad was downstairs, and him coming upstairs and getting a whiff of Moritz’s “home remedy” was like signing his own death warrant.

Not even he wanted to go out that badly.

He pulled the lighter out from underneath his arm, grimacing at the nasty burn it had left. Looks like he was gonna be stuck wearing long sleeves for the next few weeks. Oh well… seemed like a small price to pay.

He turned the lighter off, finally letting the dark swallow him up. He felt better knowing he had something else to focus on.

He laid back on his pillow, taking a slow drag of the blunt and closing his eyes. Anything was better than having to look at those fucking stars.

The little boy who put them up would hate what he had become.

\---

“Hey, Moritz!” Ernst called from down the hall. Moritz could feel the panic rise to his throat. His steps quickened as he tried to pretend he didn’t hear the other boy call his name.

Suddenly, the burning pain on his arm felt worse, as if his body was trying to remind him that he fucked up and one of the only people who still tries to help him is about to find out.

He had promised Ernst over a month ago that he was going to stop. Alternatively, he had promised himself he would stop the stuff that left marks, but of course that is one person he never listens to.

“Mo, I know you can hear me!” Ernst called again, suddenly much closer than he was before. Well shit.

He stopped, turning to face his friend. No use trying to avoid it now.

Ernst must have been jogging to keep up and was now breathing heavily. “Show me your arm.”

“What the f- Why?” Moritz tried to sound innocent, but he was never really known to be that great of an actor (at least not anymore. His ability to hide how he felt had run dry). “I didn’t do anything!”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s why you were ignoring me just a second ago. Roll up your sleeve.” His eyes were kind, but firm. He wasn’t going to back down until he got his clarity.

“I had my earbuds in, I couldn’t hear you!” Moritz said defensively, despite the fact that his earbuds were tucked carefully into his pocket.

“No, you didn’t!” Ernst was clearly getting impatient, taking another step forward. Suddenly the warning bell rang, signaling that class would soon start.

“Listen, I don’t wanna be late.” Lie. “We can talk about this later.” An even bigger lie. Moritz had no intentions of talking about this ever again. But nothing ever seems to work out in his favor.

“Wait!” Ernst reached out, grabbing Moritz’s arm and pulling him back.

“Shit!” Moritz swore loudly, trying to pry Ernst’s hand away. It hurt in a way that was almost worse than it had the night before. Probably because it wasn’t him doing it.

Ernst didn’t look surprised. He didn’t even look sad. Just disappointed.

“Knew it.” Ernst let go of his arm. Moritz pulled it his chest, staring blankly at the ground. 

“I… I have to go..” Moritz turned on his heel, walking as fast as he could. Ernst didn’t stop him, he just watched him go.

\---

It’s not like Moritz wanted to die.

At least not fully.

There was still a part of him that told him it wasn’t too late. Even with his pistol pressed to his temple, there was still a part of him that was screaming that he can still change all this. He could walk up to Ernst and give him his razor blades, his lighter, his weed, all of it and tell him he’s done. He could go up to Wendla and ask if he can rejoin the swim team, finally apologize to her about the shit he said. He could still go up to Melchior. Actually talk to him about all the shit that led to them not talking anymore.

It still wasn’t too late.

But a much larger part urged him to pull the trigger. End it now. Make it all stop.

Moritz had found a way to satisfy both sides of his fucked up brain.

He walked into his room, slamming the door behind him and holding a paper towel to his bleeding nose. He could hear his father’s car starting in the distance, knowing that he was probably going to go to the bar and try to forget what had happened.

Because punching your son in the nose was something that you could just drink away, right? With enough whisky and drunken apology texts you can fix years of agony. Everything will be ok if you make him pancakes tomorrow morning and stay out of his way for a few days.

At least until the next time you see his rapidly falling grades and lose your shit again.

Moritz was fine with this. He was fucking fine.

Both sides of his head started screaming at him at once.

Do it.

Don’t do it.

Do it.

Don’t.

Back and forth in this never ending loop. He sighed, knowing that there was only one way to satisfy them. He walked over to his dresser and opened his sock drawer. He pulled out the old pistol that he had hidden in a pair of folded socks. It was small, only really able to fit 4 bullets.

But that was ok. Moritz only needed one.

He held the gun in one hand and idly spun the barrel a few times before putting it up to his head. He stared at his bare walls, counting down in his head.

3.

His grip tightened around it.

2.

He closed his eyes.

1.

He pulled the trigger.

The shot rang through the house, probably alerting the neighbors that something was going on. But he knew they wouldn’t call the police. They were used to hearing loud noises coming from the house. 

Moritz snapped his eyes open, his hands shaking as he lowered the gun. He blinked a few times, breathing heavily. His eyes narrowed at the gun in his hand and he felt a twinge of curiosity. How close was it this time?

He pressed on the side of the barrel with his thumb, exposing the inside of it. The one bullet sat two spaces away from the spot he had landed on. Not even close.

He sighed. 25% chance, but still no luck.

Still, the scare had gotten his adrenaline going and was giving him a little bit more motivation to go to the bathroom and get his nose to stop bleeding.

He did his walk of shame, heading down the hall and stuffing his nose with bath tissue. He kept his head tilted up, occasionally feeling at the tissue to see if the blood had soaked through.

After determining that the worst of it was over, Moritz removed the paper from his nose and threw it in the garbage. He walked out, not bothering to wash the blood off of his cupid’s bow and lips as he marched down the stairs.

He entered his kitchen, going into the dish cupboard and grabbing a dinner plate. He examined it for a short second before throwing it to the ground and watching it shatter at his feet. 

If any of his neighbors did decide to call the police, this was his cover. The “concerning loud noise” was just a stupid, clumsy 16 year old boy who dropped a plate while trying to make himself dinner. He leaned down, picking up the larger pieces but still leaving some of the smaller chunks there as proof for his fabrication.

Moritz stepped back, admiring his work. He then walked into the living room, picking up the remote and flicking through Netflix like nothing had happened.

Just another ordinary night in the Stiefel household.


	2. Bruised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendla hates seeing him like this... but what choice does she have?

No one took Wendla Burgmann seriously.

This wasn’t a mere observation, but a fact.

The sky is blue, today’s weather is mild, her hair is still wet from swim practice, and no one took Wendla Burgmann seriously.

They’d decided it for her when she reached the 7th grade. Her classmates had all lost their childhood energy, but Wendla was still full of it. Overflowing, actually.

Back then, it was called “spunk”.

Now her therapist called it “mania”.

Wendla tapped her foot furiously, trying to wrestle her sweater back onto her still-wet torso. She was exhausted in more ways than one. Or rather, she knew that she was supposed to be. Swim should have drained her, especially since she had barely slept in the last few days (a grand total of 8 hours stretched out over the course of a week). But much to her annoyance, she felt full of energy.

She hated these moments more than anything else in the world. But the worst part of it all was that her support system was no longer speaking to her.

Wendla sighed, trying to remember the last time she had seen Moritz Stiefel. Her mind took her back a few weeks ago, when he had turned in his swim cap and walked away without a word. She’d seen him a few times in the hall, and once when he was taking out the garbage.

Just a year ago, the two had been best friends. They had seemed like total opposites. A tall, lanky, deeply depressed boy hanging out with a small, stout, far-too-cheerful girl? No one really understood why the two had been drawn to each other… Or at least no one except the two of them.

For all their differences, Moritz and Wendla did have one thing in common. People didn’t listen to them.

As sad as it seems, that was enough for them to start calling each other one of their closest friends. They could tell each other anything… or at least that’s what Wendla had thought.

It had started off small. Just a bruise here and there, paired up with a few scratches along his arms. He had blamed it on his cat, said he hit his arms on the side of his table.

Wendla knew these weren’t true, but she didn’t pry. Still, she worried about her friend.

… But then they got worse.

The bruises on his arms started to form the outlines of fingers, and the scratches turned to deep slits that lay only a few millimeters from his veins. She should have said something right then and there, put a stop to it all. But something in her brain still tried to convince her that it wasn’t her business. Pointing it out could put the one genuine friendship she had at risk.

And that’s exactly what happened.

He walked into practice one morning with a black eye, told the coach some bullshit about an accident with one of his friends, and gave him a fake smile. 

Wendla had seen the same smile on Martha Bessell’s face only a few years ago. He blood ran cold, and she knew she couldn’t keep quiet anymore. She approached him after practice, demanding to know the truth.

“Please,” she had begged. “Just tell me what’s happening.”

Moritz had his eyebrows furrowed and his gaze fixed at the tacky blue carpet under their feet. “I can’t…” He whispered.

“You can!” She was crying now. “Please just talk to me! I can help you! Whatever’s going on, we can-”

“I said I can’t!” He yelled, causing Wendla to flinch back. Moritz looked ather, guilt evident on his face. Without another word, he walked away.

The next day, he turned in his swim cap.

Wendla didn’t tell a soul. She knew she should have, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

Even as she was laying there in her bed, listening to the sound of screaming coming from next door and the sound of a car driving away, she still wouldn’t tell.

She just thought of Martha Bessell, her bright smile and graceful arms all covered in ugly welts. How she had shook and cried when she had finally told Wendla what was going on at home.

She made her promise not to tell. She said it would only get worse. He’d just hurt her more.

So she kept quite.

Wendla sobbed, grabbing her earbuds and putting them in. She took her phone and turned the volume all the way, just in case his dad came home again and decided he wasn’t done.

A muffled noise that sounded like a car backfiring managed to break through the barrier of Cavetown and Dodie Clark that she had created to shield herself from the world around her. Her sobs only became louder, so loud that she had to bury her face into her pillow to muffle them. 

She wanted to tell someone so bad, but she didn’t know anyone who would listen. Mr. Stiefel was a police officer, so the cops were no use. The school had counselors, but they didn’t care. They would decide that Moritz Stiefel’s life just wasn’t worth all the paperwork. Their teachers were just convinced that he was lazy, stupid, or a mix of both.

All she could do was pray.

She prayed that Moritz would be at school the next day. That she would walk into homeroom and he’d still be sitting in his usual spot doodling something in his notebook.

… But if God couldn’t deliver on that, then she had one more request. Let him take her friend in his arms and welcome him home. Wash away those scars and bruises or whatever else he has to do and make him feel safe…

Just like he did with Martha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly if you want to fight me for killing Martha then I’ll let you do it. I’m so sorry.


	3. Purge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains graphic depictions if binging and purging, as well as references to (technically two) non con events. Please proceed with caution

Ernst Robel couldn’t stand feeling helpless.

Independence had been a trait he had possessed since he was little. His mother would smile as she recalled how he would bat her hands away and say “Let me do it!” with the confidence of someone much older. It had been cute then, harmless and endearing.

But as he got older, his need for control had grown into something much more hostile.

He thought the worst of it had started when he was 12. His parents were getting a divorce, choosing their hatred of each other over their strict catholic beliefs. His parents had sat him down, explaining that it wasn’t his fault and that he had no control over what had happened. And they were right.

Not even a year later, Ernst began noticing that he didn’t really like the girls in his class. In fact, he didn’t like girls at all. But the same could not be said for the boys. A few quick google searches had Ernst’s mind reeling. Gay. He was gay. And according to all the websites, it wasn’t something he could control.

Of course it wasn’t.

Dating Hanschen should have done something to fix it. He should have been a calming force in a turbulent world. But instead, Ernst just felt his mind go wild with possibilities. He loved Hanschen, but the fact remained that if Hanschen just woke up one morning and decided that he didn’t want to be with him anymore… well, that was that. Ernst wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Moritz didn’t help. It was once again just the simple fact that one day, he could just not show up to school. He could be dead and gone, and Ernst wouldn’t even know about it until the morning.

It shouldn’t have surprised anyone that Ernst eventually reached his breaking point. He needed something… anything to give him control. Drugs didn’t work, alcohol wasn’t worth all the work it took to get it, sex had become a norm and really didn’t do much for him in the area of control (if you can catch his drift).

Still, he had found a way to ground himself. 

“You know… Hanschen is going to find out eventually.” Melchior stated simply, watching as Ernst bent himself over the toilet bowl. He ignored his “friend’s” voice, instead turning his attention to his two fingers. Their lunch period would only last for another 10 minutes, so he had to be quick about this.

“He won’t.” He said confidently, sticking the two fingers into his mouth and reaching towards the back of his throat. His gag reflex kicked in, causing his throat to start convulsing around the tips of his fingers. The discomfort grew, but he didn’t move his fingers until he felt his lunch rise up in his throat. Melchior winced, holding out the paper towels and looking away as Ernst gagged into the toilet bowl.

Ernst sputtered and coughed out the last bits of his tuna salad, then took the paper towels from Melchior’s hand and wiped his face. He sighed, not ready for the next part of this arrangement. 

“So?” Melchior didn’t even give Ernst time to fully recover before he started pressing him to get on with it. Ernst couldn’t really blame him. After all, it is what he had came for.

“You know you aren’t going to like what you hear.” Ernst said, not even trying to sugar coat it. Frankly, he didn’t think Melchior deserved to know… but he was desperate, and he couldn’t risk Melchior going to Hanschen and telling him what he knew.

“Please, just tell me!” Melchior was almost begging. “He won’t talk to me! I just want to know if he’s alright.”

Ernst sighed. “He isn’t doing well. He relapsed again.”

Melchior looked as if he’d just been hit right in the chest. “... Self harm or drugs?”

“I think it’s safe to assume both.” Ernst answered honestly. As much as he hated the disgusting feeling he got from practically selling out Moritz’s information to feed his repulsive habit, he did feel some comfort in knowing that these sessions were enough to keep Melchior as far away from Moritz as possible. Still, it was worth mentioning that this only had held up when Moritz had seemed to be improving. There was no telling how Melchior would react to this.

“I should talk to him.” He said simply. “I should-”

“No.” Ernst’s voice was stern as he popped a piece of mint gum into his mouth. Without another word, he began to pack up his things, but it didn’t look like Melchior was ready to let him go that easily.

“Ernst… are you alright?” He grabbed onto Ernst’s shoulder, stopping him just before he could unlock the door to the hallway. Ernst noticeably tensed.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” He said carefully, not even looking over to the other boy.

“I mean we used to have these little meetings once every two weeks…” He trailed off a bit before continuing. “This is our third meet-up this week.”

Fuck. Ernst cursed himself internally, pushing away from Melchior and unlocking the door. He wasn’t having this conversation, especially not with Melchior Gabor of all people!

As he took a step out into the hallway, who should he run into but Hanschen? Because that’s just how his day is going.

His boyfriend smiled. “Hey, saw you leave the cafeteria a while ago. Everything al-”

It was at that moment that he saw Melchior walk out behind him, and Ernst swore that he saw Hanschen stop breathing. He puffed his chest out and glared over to Melchior, who just gave a quick nod and walked away.

“Why were you with him?” The disgust in his boyfriend’s voice was clear, but so was the worry. It wasn’t too surprising, considering what had happened. 

For some reason, it had effected Hanschen the most. No one really knew why, but when he had discovered what was happening, he had just seen red. He’d even gotten mad at Moritz for denying that Melchior had did anything wrong. Ernst was just glad that seeing him with Melchior didn’t prompt him to try and tear the other boy limb from limb.

“It’s a public bathroom, Hans.” Ernst tried to keep his tone light hearted, but Hanschen didn’t look at ease. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened, OK?”

Ernst chose not to mention that he wouldn’t be in any danger if he was with Melchior. He wasn’t the one Melchior wanted.

Hanschen seemed to relax, finally taking a breath. He thing turned to Ernst wit a smile and began to lead him away with a hand resting on the small of his back.

“So… my parents won’t be home.” He let his hand slide down, pushing it into Ernst’s back pocket. “Care to come over? Do a little Achilles and Patroclus?”

Ernst felt a little smile tug at his lips. A fake smile, just about as real as every other smile he finds himself giving nowadays. “Maybe so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this out before Passover but that didn’t happen. Anyway, happy Easter and a late Passover to those who celebrate. If you don’t then just happy Sunday :)


	4. Urge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melchior is fuuuucked up. Like he’s scary and I feel bad for my boy.
> 
> Rape/noncon warning, along with violence and intrusive thoughts

The first time Melchior felt the urge to hurt something was when he was 9 years old. He had been petting the family dog, when suddenly something in his brain told him to beat her. The urge felt louder and louder, until he eventually jumped back from his furry friend, tears streaming down his face. He refused to pet his own dog for two weeks, fearing that he might hurt her.

It only got worse from there. These thoughts just grew stronger with age. In the 6th grade, he had wanted to punch Hanschen in the jaw completely unprovoked. In 8th, he had felt the overwhelming urge to strangle Ernst while having his first kiss with him behind the school. In 9th, he had almost beat the shit out of Wendla. Each time had Melchior feeling even more terrified of his own mind. He’d tried to keep a journal, run a blog, anything to take his mind away from these scary thoughts, but it felt like nothing would ever work…

Enter Moritz Stiefel.

To say that Melchior had developed a crush on the other boy would be the understatement of the year. He had practically fallen in love with him since he had first met him. He was cute, curly black hair and a sweet smile. It’s not like it was hard to fall head over heels.

But most importantly, Melchior didn’t want to hurt him. Even after months of hanging out with him, both in groups and alone, Melchior never had any urge to do anything to him. 

… Anything harmful, that is.

Melchior had been so smitten that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Moritz might not like him back. It felt like it wasn’t even possible. Maybe he had just never noticed because Moritz didn’t show interest in anyone. He never mentioned leaning one way or another, and Melchior decided that as long as Moritz’s sexuality was still up in the air then he still had a chance…

God, had he been wrong.

He remembered that it had been at a party, though who’s house it had been at was lost to him. He’d dragged Moritz with him, telling him to “Put on something sexy and get your ass down here”.

Of course he did just that. When he snuck out of his bedroom window, wearing a low-cut tank top and some ripped jeans. Melchior had already been pretty convinced that he was going to try and make a move, but now he was starting to wonder if he was going to be able to wait long enough to make the entire thing less creepy.

Of course, anyone who has ever been to a party will know that it’s easy to lose someone in the crowd. By the time Melchior had found Moritz, another guy (Bobby Something-Or-Another) sitting with him against the wall. The two were laughing and Melchior felt a tightness in his chest. 

He retreated to the kitchen, complaining loudly to Hanschen as Wendla walked into the room. She told him that she’d just seen Moritz go upstairs, so if he really wanted to talk with him then this might be his chance.

Melchior gave her a grateful nod before heading out to the living room and up the stairs. 

He had opened almost all of the doors on the second story, walking into many couples going at it and many drunk teenagers throwing up in various hollowed objects.

When he had opened the last door,he had seen two naked bodies move away from each other quickly. He had almost apologized until he saw a mess of curly black hair and dazed, drunk brown eyes.

Melchior felt his blood boil as Bobby rushed to get dressed, muttering a quick and very sober “sorry” as he pushed past him. Melchior kept his eyes locked on Moritz, watching him sit up. The sheets fell, pooling around his waist and exposing the little bite marks that littered his torso.

Melchior felt his body walk towards the bed. That’s when he felt it. The little voice in his head, telling him to hurt someone he loved. But this one was different, this time he didn’t want cause physical harm. He wanted to do something that would hurt his friend in a way even more fucked up than any of the others had.

“He’s right there, just like how you’ve always wanted him.” He could feel it say.

“No!” He replied. Every fiber in his being wanted to scream no, but the urge was persistent. After all, there he was. Drunk, pliable, and-

No! No no no! He can’t do this, no!

Moritz had opened his hazy eyes, giving him a strange look. “Melchi?”

Melchior just stared at him, looking away as he watched Moritz shift once again. He didn’t want to know what he would do if he happened to see any more exposed skin.

“Moritz, you need to cover up. Now.’ He said simply. He didn’t want to hurt him…

But he couldn’t deny that he wanted him.

“Melchi, what’s wrong?” He leaned forward, draping an arm over Melchior’s shoulder.

Melchior’s brain went into autopilot, and before he knew it, he had Moritz pinned by the wrists, looking up at him with absolute terror.

“M-Melchi, you’re scaring me…” He slurred, trying to tug his wrists out of Melchior’s grasp.

Melchior looked down, his eyes darkening. He wanted this. He wanted this so badly that it scared him.

“Melchi, please! Let’s go home.” Moritz sound about as terrified as a drunk person could, tugging a little harder at his wrists. “Melchior!”

He had actually yelled the last part, successfully snapping Melchior out of whatever daze he had been in and causing him to jump back.

Oh god… what did he just try to do.

“Moritz?” He had heard Hanschen call from down the hall, most likely in response to the shouting he had heard. There was the jiggle of the doorknob and a sharp knock. “Hey, are you ok?”

Melchior grew frantic, suddenly noticing the tears in Moritz’s terrified eyes. He didn’t waste much more time turning on his heels, unlocking the door, pushing past Hanschen and booking it out of the bedroom.

He just kept going, climbing into his car and driving home with no real regard for the speed limit. He was confident that a.) Hanschen or Ernst would gladly give Moritz a ride home and b.) that he was the last person to be allowed in a car alone with the other boy.

As he pulled into his driveway, he sat for a moment and let it all sink in.

He’d tried to rape Moritz.

\---

The next Monday proved to be one of the worst days in his life.

Ernst had seen him in the hallway and looked at him in pure disgust, also looking prepared to murder him.

Hanschen hadn’t been so subtle. Otto had to hold him back as he saw Melchior pass by in the hallway. His face contorted in rage and he threatened to kill him right then and there (something that had actually genuinely shocked Melchior. He didn’t think Moritz and Hanschen were even friends, and yet here Hanschen was ready to take a life to defend him).

But the worst was Moritz. Melchior hadn’t even realized just how drunk Moritz was until he found out that he couldn’t even remember the night of the party. Melchior could have defiled him and he would have been so completely fucked up that he wouldn’t even have remembered it.

He had tried to give him a hug, but melchior pushed him away. He couldn’t touch him. He couldn’t hurt him.

Instead, he walked away.

If keeping Moritz safe meant keeping himself away, then that’s exactly what he’d do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Rapists get ripped in half, bitch.”  
> \- Hanschen Rilow, 2k19

**Author's Note:**

> I want it to be known that I do not support what Moritz is doing! This is not meant to glorify these issues in any way, and this chapter is really going to be the worst of it.


End file.
